


You Dreamt Of Him

by mentallymrswinchester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, F/M, One Shot, Reader-Insert, imagine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 08:09:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10301894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mentallymrswinchester/pseuds/mentallymrswinchester
Summary: The reader dreams of him often-but this time, it's different.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just another thing from my tumblr, mentallymrswinchester. I'm getting the hang of this AO3 thing, I swear.

You dreamt of him, last night. 

Which annoyed you, a lot, because you thought that you’d gotten over that. You thought that maybe, since you hadn’t dreamed of him for weeks, months perhaps, that it was done. 

Obviously, you thought wrong.

It wasn’t the usual dream washed in red, your blood or his you can’t remember. It wasn’t the usual dream-sorry, nightmare-stained with his tears and yours together and it wasn’t the usual nightmare that ended in loneliness. 

It was a fairly good dream, which confuses you still because you thought those dreams didn’t exist anymore. 

He was smiling that smile that made his eyes crinkle at the sides and warmed your heart in ways you couldn’t explain. His hair was fluffy and short and mussed in his classic ‘I slept on it but still look gorgeous’ look. His juniper green eyes were twinkling like the stars you enjoyed talking to him about and they told you thousands of stories like they used to. His eyelashes touched his cheekbones when he blinked, and it was beautiful.

You called them cute once, you think. You brushed the pad of your thumb across them and he chuckled and whispered “what the hell do you mean, my eyelashes are cute” and he tried to be annoyed with you but you just kissed those pouty lips of his and his mock irritation melted in your hands. 

You aren’t sure what spurred on the dream. 

No, wait. That’s a lie. You were at the coffee shop earlier that day, you remember, ordering something with two shots of espresso, and you thought-you could’ve sworn that you heard the all too familiar rev of the Impala’s engine. 

Your heart jumped into your throat and you almost knocked over the poor lady in the flowery cardigan racing to the front door to get a glimpse outside. 

It wasn’t her. It wasn’t that damn car you’d spent days in, the one with the creaky doors and the one that felt like home. You’re a bit sure that it was nothing, actually. Just a case of not enough sleep and the resurfacing of buried thoughts you desperately tried (and failed) to get rid of. 

You hadn’t been on a hunt in 267 days and counting. It had been hard, getting back into hunting. You’d tried. But you couldn’t-can’t-even get through research without seeing red

red

red

and the shine of a sharpened blade catching the moonlight. 

“Dean, you have to get out of here.”

“You must be crazy if you think I’m gonna leave you by yourself.” 

You remembered how right his hand felt in yours when the monsters started closing in on the two of you. You remembered thinking if I die, I’ll be glad I went like this. 

You remembered how he was barely alive when the two of you got out. How your desperate pleas of his name went unanswered. But you didn’t want to remember how the first time you ever felt the Impala’s steering wheel in your hands was the time you were speeding to get to the hospital, Dean’s bleeding and unconscious form slumped over in the backseat, his shirt and your jacket meekly staunching the flow of blood from his deepest wounds. 

You wouldn’t even let the doctors see your injuries until they assured you they had Dean being treated. And even then, there were hardly any. 

You could’ve sworn you had been waiting a century for Dean to get out of surgery, but the nurses assured you it was only 12 hours. 

You hated the way Sam sat with his hands folded under his chin, knee bouncing anxiously as the both of you waited for a word from a nurse, a doctor, anyone about Dean. You hated the way you felt like the whole situation was your fault.

He was unconscious when you finally got the chance to see him. He was breathing softly and without a hitch. His face wasn’t pinched from concentration or frustration and all of the lines etched into his face were gone. He almost looked 26 again and he was beautiful. 

You held his hand and whispered your apologies through the thick emotion in your throat. Your chest felt sore and raw cries threatened to spill from your mouth, but you kept them in. 

You didn’t cry. 

You were so sad. Hell, hunting made you sad. But Dean was that constant thing that made hunting easier to get through.

But you didn’t cry.

When you muttered a hesitant goodbye, you didn’t cry.

When you kissed his forehead, gave his fingers one last, parting squeeze, you didn’t cry.

When you met Sam’s red rimmed eyes, and told him he was, and always will be like family to you, you didn’t cry.

And when you said goodbye to the only thing you ever knew, the life you thought you’d always have, you didn’t shed one, single tear. 

Not one. 

You hadn’t seen Dean in 267 days. You haven’t been able to find the missing pieces of your heart in 267 days. You haven’t felt like a part of something for 267 days. 

But in last night’s dream, Dean’s eyes were juniper green, his smile was large and present, and those eyelashes were still cute. 

In last night’s dream, he was beautiful.


End file.
